“Oh, Evelyn,” she said, her voice airy and dismissive. “We didn’t expect you until late February. Julian said we could use the place this week for my family’s winter retreat. We’re already quite settled in, and honestly… there’s no room for extra guests.”
Extra guests. In her own house.
Evelyn looked past her. Her blue throw pillows were on the floor; strangers were rifling through her kitchen cabinets; a teenager was thundering up the stairs barefoot. The sanctuary she had built, stitch by stitch, had been invaded.
“I told Julian I’d be here today,” Evelyn said, her voice steady despite the hammering in her chest.
Beatrix shrugged, a casual movement that felt like a slap. “He must have forgotten. He’s so swamped at the firm. But as I said, we’re full up. We don’t want any inconvenience, so you’ll have to find somewhere else for now.”
Evelyn didn’t shout. She didn’t cry. She simply looked at the keys in her hand, then at the woman standing in her apron, and felt a clarity so cold it was almost bracing. “That’s fine,” Evelyn whispered. “I’ll find somewhere else.”